The hearing date arrived on a gray Thursday morning that felt too quiet for the magnitude of it.
I barely slept the night before. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw faceless people in a courtroom taking Lily from me while I stood voiceless, my mouth opening and closing around words no one could hear. I woke before dawn with a pain under my breastbone that felt like swallowing ice. I showered, dressed, reapplied makeup twice because my hands shook, and stood in the bathroom staring at my reflection as if I might locate a more convincing version of myself behind it.
I wore a navy dress Margaret had approved because it looked calm and adult and not too expensive. My hair wouldn’t behave, so I pinned it back. I made coffee I couldn’t drink and toast I couldn’t swallow. Down the hall, Lily woke on her own and padded into the kitchen hugging her rabbit.
I had laid out her pale blue dress on a chair the night before, the one she called her “sky dress” because of the color. She put it on without complaint. That alone scared me. Usually she argued for leggings or mismatched socks or the sparkly sneakers with the loose strap. That morning she seemed to understand ceremony.
While I brushed her curls, she studied us both in the bathroom mirror.
“Are judges scary?” she asked.
“Some can be,” I admitted. “But I think this one will be kind.”
“Will Daddy be there?”
“Yes.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “If he lies, do I have to be quiet because he’s my dad?”
My hand stopped in her hair.
“No,” I said carefully. “But you don’t have to say anything unless the judge asks you.”
She nodded again, that same thoughtful nod I had seen more and more often lately, and I felt a strange little thread of fear move through me.
In the car, Nashville’s outskirts passed in cold, familiar blurs—gas stations, school zones, churches with marquee signs, the donut shop on the corner where Lily once lost a tooth into a glazed twist and cried until the cashier found it. Life looked offensively normal. On the radio a man cheerfully discussed weekend weather patterns while I gripped the steering wheel hard enough to hurt.
Lily sat behind me with her rabbit and backpack. About ten minutes into the drive, she said, “Mommy?”
“Yes, baby?”
“If the judge asks me a question, can I answer honestly?”